By day, Philip Berne works for a major mobile technology manufacturer. At night, he dons his Batman cape and cowl, pours himself a dram, and sits in a dark room contemplating the intersection of culture and technology. His opinions were originally his own, but have since been digitally enhanced by George Lucas.

I'm in a perpetual argument with more than one person over the appropriate length of a resume. I've always believed in the 1-page resume. Most on the other side see 3-pages as a logical limit. They are wrong, of course. The 1-page resume is the perfect size. You never need more than one page explaining who you are. If you think you do, you are overthinking yourself. The resume is not supposed to be a novel about your life, it's supposed to be a book report about the novel about your life. It gets the reader interested in the story, but it doesn't tell you everything or give away the ending.

My son sits in the back of the car a lot. There's the ride to and from school, the field trips on weekends, that sort of thing. I have an internal struggle on what he should be doing back there. Part of me wishes onto him the excruciating boredom I suffered through in my youth in the back of cars. I tell myself that his character will be built upon managing such boredom and not indulging his every whim with digital stimulus. In other words, I worry his iPad is rotting his brain (disclosure, during the day I work for Samsung, we make competitor tablets that I also worry may be rotting his brain). Still, I can't take away his tablets. I can't do that to my child. I understand.

My son gets into the car and before I have a chance to slide into the driver's seat and buckle myself in, he's already reaching for the iPad. He's fastened his seatbelt, obviously, because he knows he can't touch the iPad until he's buckled up. He starts with his current favorite game, Mr. Crab. The music is horrible. The gameplay is fun, especially for a 4 year old.

His gaming elicits those terrific moments of parenting that you can tell your friends who don't have kids and they still find funny. Like when he started trash-talking his games. This happened recently. He always talked to the characters, I think that's normal. Once he figured out Talking Tom the Cat Who Farts will talk back to him in a funny voice, the babbling from the backseat never ended.

I have been using Twitter continually for about three years now. I'm not sure of the exact date, or my first tweet, because Twitter still hasn't given me the option to download my entire archive yet, though every time I check, the "Deactivate my account" option stares back at me from the bottom of the Settings page, where the archive option is supposed to appear someday. It taunts me, that deactivation option, because like all good things, Twitter occasionally makes me sick. There are days when I love it, and days when I can't stand it. There are days when I can't stand myself as a tweeter. To paraphrase a misogynist saying, show me a beautiful social network and I'll show you a guy who's tired of checking his @replies.

I am not entirely human. All of the parts of a human being are inside me, but I have a few extra bits as well, not so much floating around as firmly secured in place. In some spots, these nonhuman bits hold me together. In other spots... well, that's a different story.

I have a couple gadgets inside of me. One was forced on me; the other I chose. I made the choice in much the same way you'd choose a computer. I tried to future-proof myself. I chose an option that I could upgrade later. In the end, I made a decision that was not entirely rational, but rather based on passion and branding and aesthetics over performance. Like I said, just like a computer.

It's probably too late now, but for the last week there may have been an unusual window of opportunity in which I could have embedded something cool into the tip of my finger. I lost it recently. The tip, that is. Of my finger. It happened in a freak office chair incident at a posh hotel in New York City. That's pretty much all you need to know, except that I lost about a centimeter of finger. I mean, I found it. The fingertip, that is; but it could not be reattached. It was not stitched. It was left agape and healing of its own devices. If I'm going to stick something in there to extend the capabilities of my digit in perpetuity, now is the time. Rarely is one greeted with such an open opportunity, literally, so of course I wonder what sort of technical marvel I could implant.

I bought a bag. It looks like a purse. It's my fault. I knew this was a distinct possibility, but I went ahead and ordered it anyway. I skipped a few bags trying to play themselves of as satchels. Even the one branded "Indy," in honor of Indiana Jones wasn't fooling anyone. I've played the satchel game before and ended up wearing a purse. This time I thought I would go for a carrying case instead. A carrying case I bought, and a carrying case arrived. Unfortunately, my carrying case looks like a purse.

The PS4 launch was a huge success. Forget what you've heard. You've probably read on tech blogs that it was too long. They showed too many demos. Worst of all, they never showed the actual PlayStation hardware. How could they have a PlayStation launch without showing the hardware? If a PlayStation launches in the woods and there is no hardware, does anyone hear it?

In all the hubbub around the new Instagram Terms of Service, there is one refrain that keeps repeating. It’s one I’ve heard plenty of times before, and it’s the reason I was hesitant to even tackle this issue. I see plenty of pundits saying that I must be an idiot if I did not read the original Terms of Use. I should always read the Terms of Use. What was I expecting? These policies have always already been spelled out in the Terms of Use.

It’s a strange time of year to be of my ilk in America. The houses are mostly decked with lights, although I live in that rare North Texas neighborhood of refreshing ethnic diversity where the smells of wonderful cooking waft through the air to mark myriad holidays that our Christian brethren don’t celebrate. The trees appear covered in tinsel and ornaments in the shopping malls, the school classrooms, and the corporate lobbies. The music is relentless and oppressive. Opposing signs admonish me to not forget the religious aspects of the season, while a large man who curates a white beard year round charges $20 for a picture of small children sitting on his groin. It is Christmas, the time of year when many of you celebrate, while the rest of us decide to what extent we are going to lie to our children.